Beyond Tired
by coolchick207
Summary: Harry was tired. The kind of exhaustion that seeps into your bones, and numbs your mind, and makes you wonder in that half-conscious haze between sleep and awareness whether breathing is worth the energy it requires… Heavy angst. Warnings inside.


**A/N:** Well, just a short one-shot with 2 purposes – to let you all know I'm getting back into this writing business at last after almost a year gone to attend to a few personal matters. Also, to inform you that _all _of my fics will soon be making a reappearance. I AM in desperate need of a beta though – I lost my beta over here in Australia when she had to leave for overseas a few days back… Noooo!!!! She won't be able to beta for at least 2 years and I doubt she'll be back after that… Oh well, enjoy.

**Genre:** Angst

**Rating:** A strong PG-13 or R

**Summary:** Harry was tired. The kind of exhaustion that seeps into your bones, and numbs your mind, and makes you wonder in that half-conscious haze between sleep and awareness whether breathing is worth the energy it requires… Heavy angst.

**Disclaimer:** I hold no claim over Harry Potter or any affiliated characters.

**Warning!!!** Character death, disturbing themes, child abuse, suicide, self-mutilation – may or may not be a trigger.

Beyond Tired by Coolchick207 

Harry was tired. Beyond tired, actually. The kind of exhaustion that seeps into your very bones, and numbs your mind, and makes you wonder in that half-conscious haze between sleep and awareness whether breathing is worth the energy it requires. He breathed out slowly, opening eyelids that felt like they had weights attached to them, and let his bloodshot, brilliant emerald eyes rest on his one friend, his one constant in a world that was changing so rapidly he felt as though, if he turned his back for more than a moment, he'd miss something important.

Hedwig cooed softly, expressive amber eyes watching her master in concern. His breath hitched in his chest and he struggled not to cough, knowing the pain it would cause. Regardless of his efforts, it welled up in his throat and tore through his slight form, causing small whimpers of agony to escape from his tightly closed lips, and tears to fall from emotionless eyes. Mentally, he cursed himself for his weakness, for the bruises and breaks he had acquired over the long summer, the long angry welts along his arms… cursed himself for everything.

He felt his eyelids begin to drift closed again and sighed, knowing the battle was already half lost. Hedwig, with an almost unnatural understanding of his emotions, flew down next to him and nudged his face with her beak, let her silky feathers trace gently down his arm in an attempt to bring him back to the light, either not noticing or choosing to ignore the trail of bright red that now marred her snow white wing, and warbled a note that brought happy memories into sharp relief for a single moment before he banished them into the depths of his mind. He did not deserve happiness. He knew very little, but of this he was sure.

Again, with a colossal effort, he dragged his eyes open once more. He took stock of his injuries, more as a way to pass the time that anything else. Broken wrist – Dudley Dursley: Bruised abdomen – Vernon Dursley: Fractured ribs – Vernon: Various cuts and abrasions on face and hands – Dudley and Vernon. Cuts on arms, legs and wrists: Harry Potter.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard Hedwig take off. Good girl, he thought absently. Go hunt, be normal. Be normal enough for both of us.

When, he wondered, as his eyes rested on the ever-growing pool of deep red on the bedspread, had the boy-who-lived become the boy-who-wished-to-die? Was it during those terrifying few moments when he had watched his Godfather gracefully fall to his demise? Or the hours after that as he tried to grasp the concept that he was either to be murderer, or victim? Had it been when he saw his best friends face contort with pain in his sleep as other peoples memories swam through his mind? Or when he saw Hermione lying, unconscious, barely breathing, on the floor of a place she had no wish to visit from the first?

Was it when he got out of the car and turned to get his belongings, only to be met with the beefy fist of his Uncle? Or during one of the countless beatings that followed? Had it been when he saw on the muggle news that entire families were disappearing, or being found dead in their homes, with the looks of terror upon their faces the only clue as to the cause of death?

Reaching out weakly, he ran his finger across the sharp blade of the knife he had stolen from his Aunts kitchen on one of the rare occasions he ventured out of his room. He chuckled grimly as he remembered the look of horror on Petunias face as he calmly took it from the knife block and placed it in the back of his jeans, resting the cool metal between the rough fabric and pale skin of his back. And he remembered the fleeting look of resignation and sorrow as she realised that he had only one purpose in mind for the weapon and it was not to harm her family. The coolness of her hand as she placed it on his shoulder for a moment and whispered 'I'm sorry' under her breath, before leaving him alone to finish the chores her husband had set him.

His eyelids fluttered closed again and, finally, having no control over the memories his mind conjured, allowed images of his friends to flash before his eyes. Images of Ron and Hermione, standing, nose-to-nose in the common room, fighting over a trivial comment Ron had made with the intent of provoking her. The fire in their eyes, the small crinkling at the corner of their mouths, the joy of the normalcy that had radiated from their forms - the simple, childish joy of those who had been forced to carry the weight of the world on their shoulders and who had found a release. 

Images of Ron being hoisted onto the shoulders of his housemates, as they sang the revised form of 'Weasley is our King'; Of Hermione's eyes squinting as she struggled to understand a particularly hard arithmacy problem. Images of Ginny Weasley throwing back her head and laughing as Neville, in parody of himself, had made an exaggerated fall down a flight of stairs to get her out of her funk at almost failing a potions exam, and of the DA as they fought hard to perfect a spell he had told them was particularly useful. Images of Hagrid pouring them tea in his hut after one of their numerous 'adventures', and of the twinkling eyes of his headmaster.

Sighing, he used the last semblance of energy he possessed to tighten his hold on the handle of a mirror that he clasped in his pale hand, and fixed his eyes on the photo of his parents on his bedside table, before allowing them to close with a small sigh of air passing his lips.

Downstairs, he could hear yelling, though it seemed far away, as though the people who the voices belonged to were miles from his bedroom and he thanked any listening Gods that he couldn't hear the words. Discerning his Uncles voice from the throng, he decided it was best that he was dying. No more pain, no more hurting. Then he heard his Aunts terror filled voice.

"He's upstairs, help him, take him away, please, please!" before a short scream and the sickening sound of flesh on flesh as Vernon's hand connected with his Aunts face, and Harry realised that Hedwig hadn't gone hunting. She'd gone to Grimmauld place.

"Too late, you're too late…" he murmured in a singsong voice, as he gave into the urge to slip into the darkness. 

He was right. 


End file.
